Smooth as Silk, page 1
Also available from Alicia Hunter Pace
and Carina Press
Sweet as Pie
Coming soon from Alicia Hunter Pace
and Carina Press
Shine Like Silver
Also available from Alicia Hunter Pace
Gone South Series
Sweet Gone South
Scrimmage Gone South
Simple Gone South
Secrets Gone South
Santa Gone South (novella)
“Slugger Gone South” in Take Me Out (short story)
Nashville Sound Series
Face Off: Emile
Slap Shot: Bryant
High Stick: Jarrett
Body Check: Thor
Smooth as Silk
Alicia Hunter Pace
For Tara Gelsomino, the best agent and mentor a writer could hope for. It is a pleasure to walk this road with you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
About the Author
Excerpt from Sweet as Pie by Alicia Hunter Pace
Chapter One
One of the best things about living in the American South was that you could eat ice cream in November. Not that it was banned in the Highlands of Scotland where Robbie McTavish was from, in Switzerland where he’d gone to prep school, or in New England where he’d played junior and college hockey. You just wouldn’t be as inclined.
“Best one yet.” He raised his towering cone of mocha praline fudge and smiled to Constance, the owner of Double Scoop.
“That’s what you say every day.”
“Not every day.” He licked his cone and headed for the door.
“Near enough.” Constance laughed. “Not that I’m complaining.”
He was probably eating too much ice cream, if there was any such thing. Double Scoop made their own and had new flavors every week. The cheery little bell chimed behind him as he stepped out onto Main Street. The Laurel Springs shopping district didn’t look too different from his village in Scotland—nice storefronts with harvest decorations on the sidewalks.
The other thing he liked about the American South was Southern women. Really, he liked all women, but there was something intriguing about how Southern women wore pearls with blue jeans, drank straight bourbon, and put their initials on everything they owned.
And the sunglasses. Never had he known women who had sunglasses appear like magic in their hands the second they put foot to threshold. Maybe it wasn’t magic. Maybe it was more like those claws that shot out of Wolverine’s hands when he needed to fight, only these women were fighting the sun.
He hadn’t had much female company of late—at least not like he’d had when he was playing professional hockey in Nashville. He’d left the Nashville Sound for the new Birmingham, Alabama, team when his best friend Jake had, figuring they’d continue on as they had before—keeping company with charming companions, exploring bars, and shutting down parties.
It hadn’t turned out that way.
First off, Jake had, for reasons Robbie still wasn’t all that clear about, decided he was tired of his partying ways. Then, before the season started, the head coach had been fired for sexual harassment, and Nickolai Glazov, the acting head coach, had threatened them with benching if their bad boy ways showed up on the pro hockey gossip blog, The Face Off Grapevine. Even if those things hadn’t happened, night life wasn’t exactly hopping here. The Yellowhammers’ practice rink and offices had been built in this little outlying village rather than in the thick of downtown Birmingham. Consequently, most everyone connected with the Yellowhammer organization had settled here in Laurel Springs because it was more convenient.
And now, Jake had started keeping steady company with his childhood pal, Evans—and he was fair besotted, too, from the looks of things. Sure, Robbie could have scared up some excitement if he’d wanted to, but it was too much trouble. He’d lost his running buddy and, after skating and working out, he never felt inclined to drive all the way downtown to hunt a good time that was likely to get him in trouble anyway.
So he was bored.
Apart from some right fine victories on the ice, the most fun he’d had lately was a mandatory team volunteer job, and how sad was that? He’d played piano at the bridal shop for the Laurel Springs Fall Festival last month. The owner, Hyacinth, had gotten her dander up at him for not exactly following everything on her exhaustive lists, but that had just made it interesting. He’d gotten a right fine tongue lashing from her, too. He smiled at the memory. It brought to mind that phrase from old movies—“You’re cute when you’re mad.” But he’d known better than to say it. He hadn’t seen her since that night and wondered if she’d gotten over it yet. Her shop was just up ahead. Maybe he’d pay her a little visit, see if she was still all het up—and see if she was still as pretty as he remembered.
He didn’t have anything else to do. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving and Glaz had called practice off this afternoon to give a head start on the holiday since they had to report back midday on Friday. Hockey didn’t pay much mind to Thanksgiving and the Yellowhammers had a game Saturday afternoon.
He crossed the street right in the middle. You could jaywalk in Laurel Springs without getting run over.
The window of Trousseau needed a little work. There were two headless mannequins wearing wedding dresses, and that was the first problem. He hated headless bodies—gave him the heebie-jeebies. The pumpkins and leaves were okay for this time of year, but she needed something that would catch the eye, like blinking lights and an animated scarecrow. Maybe a turkey or two, though he could never understand why Americans decorated with the thing they were going to kill and eat. Santa Claus had better look out. Cannibalism might break out any time.
Speaking of the right jolly old elf... If Robbie put his mind to it, he could think of some really good window decorations for Christmas—silver trees, twinkling stars, and maybe a snowman or some unicorns with flashing horns. People loved unicorns these days. His little nieces fancied them above all else.
Some motion beyond the display caught his eye. What on God’s green earth was that and why was Hyacinth allowing it?
There was a woman on a little platform in front of a three-way mirror. Hyacinth and Brad—who Robbie had palled around with some lately—were hovering around. Hyacinth had her usual all-black duds and trussed-up hair in a bun Professor McGonagall look going—but that wasn’t what horrified Robbie. It was the bride.
That dress absolutely did not belong on that woman.
Robbie knew everything about weddings that was worth knowing, and not only because he’d been involved in all of his married sisters’ weddings—five so far, and two to go, unless Sophie or Ella went to the convent like his granny hoped. He’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of brides and he’d never encountered one in such a train wreck of a frock.
She was wearing a straight dress with a dropped waist that was meant for a tall, very thin woman with not much up top or in the bum area. This bride had a lovely hourglass figure with a small waist that was made for a ball gown. Now that he thought about it, her shape wasn’t so different from Hyacinth’s. Hyacinth had to know this dress was all wrong, so why had she allowed the bride to try it on? Hyacinth smoothed the skirt, smiled, and said something to the bride when she ought to be hauling her back to the dressing room and getting her out of that dress. If his granny were here, she’d march right in there and tell Hyacinth that she was about to ruin this poor woman’s wedding day.
Holy family and all the wise men! Just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, Brad settled a jeweled band with feathers coming off it around the lass’s head. It suited the dress but, given that the dress didn’t suit the woman, they ought not to encourage her with that little bit of frippery. If somebody didn’t put a stop to this, Hyacinth was going to run herself out of business.
He had to go in there. It was his duty as a wedding authority and citizen of the Universe.
* * *
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try a ball gown? Or an empire? Both would be so lovely on you.” Daisy Dubois, who identified with Daisy Buchanan and was set on having a Gatsby-themed wedding, did not have the body for this flapper-style dress. But, so far, Daisy had ignored Hyacinth’s suggestions.
“No,” Daisy said firmly. “Especially not a ball gown. I refuse to look like a parade float.”
Lois, mother of the bride, bit her lip and looked at the floor, probably wishing she’d never named her daughter Daisy. The four bridesmaids lined up on the sofa were no more enchanted with the dress than Lois. This had been going on so long they had gone from sneaking peeks at their phones to blatantly scrolling and texting while they knocked back the cheap champagne Hyacinth served.
There was no chance any of them were going to be honest with Daisy. Hyacinth had been down this road enough times to know that there were two kinds of unfortunate bridal posses: the overly vocal and critical ones, and the ones who made the consultant be the bad guy. This bunch was firmly in the latter category. Hyacinth would be the bad guy if it came to that, but everyone would be happier if she could gently nudge Daisy into wising up on her own.
She’d also been down this road enough to know that, given time, Daisy would wise up. Then she would take some suggestions and everything would turn out lovely.
Daisy turned and pulled at the fabric around her hips. “Is it too small? It doesn’t feel right.” Good. She was getting there. Hyacinth felt the first hint of the sparkling happy little cloud that always formed when a bride found the dress of her dreams.
But there was still work to do. Hyacinth pretended to study and waited a few beats to say what she already knew. “Not too small. A larger size would swallow your shoulders and waist. This is just the nature of a column dress.” Altering wouldn’t fix the problem. “Let’s try something with a flared skirt.” There were a dozen on the rolling rack in the workroom that Hyacinth had already put aside just for Daisy. “Maybe a trumpet?”
“Would it have the Gatsby look?” Daisy asked.
Hyacinth exchanged glances with Brad. They both knew there was no way to sell that.
“To be honest, no,” Hyacinth said, “but it would show off your beautiful small waist.”
“And we could do some accessories that would give the feel of the period.” You had to hand it to Brad. He always gave it the old college try.
Lois nodded and the bridesmaids looked up from their phones, hopeful.
“No,” Daisy said stubbornly. “I don’t want the feel. I want to look authentic. I want to try another drop waist.”
They’d already been through this three times with three different dresses and there were only two more in the right price range. Maybe that would be enough. If not, Hyacinth might have to be blunt—but she wasn’t going to borrow trouble yet.
“Of course. Let’s get you back to the dressing room.” Hyacinth held out a hand to help Daisy from the pedestal when the bell above the door jingled.
Hyacinth looked around, set to greet the newcomer, but she froze.
Robbie McTavish. That was the last thing this room needed right now.
It had been almost a month since she’d seen him, but that nightmare fall fest was still fresh on her mind and probably always would be—and all because of him. First, he’d shown up wearing a ragged kilt—much like the one he was wearing now. Next, he had ruined the centerpiece of her refreshment table when he cut her fabulously expensive haunted house wedding cake before the festival even started. Then, he’d ignored her carefully compiled playlist and banged out whatever he pleased on the piano, often singing along. Admittedly, he played well and had a pleasant voice, but how could he have thought “Monster Mash” and “Werewolves of London” were acceptable when she’d wanted “Pachelbel’s Canon” and “The Bridal Chorus”? And she hadn’t been able stop him. Every time she’d tried to get him back on track, he’d said, “Yeah, yeah, lass. For sure,” and plowed right on doing what he wanted.
* * *
Her brain began to smolder at the memory of it all.
It was her own fault that he was here today. He’d left his grubby kilt and shoes in the dressing room the night of the fall festival when he’d changed into his not-at-all-grubby formal kilt for the festival after-party. If only she hadn’t procrastinated about calling him to pick up his things, she could have directed him to come here on her schedule. Now, not only was he here in the middle of a difficult bridal appointment wearing a faded I heart New York T-shirt with yet another worn out kilt, he had a chocolate ice cream cone the size of the Statue of Liberty’s torch.
Hyacinth did not allow food in her store beyond the champagne and cheese straws she served clients. She had a little whimsical sign outside over a trash can that said, “Check Your Coffee at the Door! Someone’s Silk Dream is Inside.” Apparently she needed to add ice cream to that sign.
“Hey, Robbie,” Brad said.
Robbie nodded. “Brad, my friend. You owe me a Mortal Kombat rematch.”
“And you owe me a burger. I paid last time because you didn’t have your wallet.”
Organized, dependable Brad had befriended this soup sandwich of a man? That was news to her, but none of her business. They were just an unlikely pair.
Robbie settled his eyes on Hyacinth and pushed his messy copper hair out of his eyes—the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. “And the lovely Hyacinth.” He gave a nod to Daisy and then to her entourage. “Ladies.”
“You must be here for your shoes and kilt,” Hyacinth said. “I’ll get them for you.”
Robbie looked surprised. “This is where I left them? I wondered where they got off to. I had to get new gutties.” He held up a glow-in-the-dark green running shoe. His socks didn’t match and he had a scrape on his knee that needed some Neosporin and a bandage. It was when she was wondering idly how he’d hurt himself that she noticed his leg—and then the other one. They were chiseled, strong, and very attractive. How had she missed that before? “Do you like them?” She might have thought he was referring to his legs if he hadn’t pressed a button on the shoe, causing the soles to burst into a light show. “Fancy, huh?”
“I didn’t know they made those for adults.” If he wasn’t here for his belongings, why was he here? Not that it mattered. Good legs and green eyes or no, she had to get rid of him. Bridal parties were notoriously protective of their time. But when Hyacinth turned to gauge the mood of the room, Daisy and Lois were smiling so bright you could practically see moonbeams swirling around them, and the bridesmaids sat a little straighter and had put down their phones. One crossed her legs and another licked her lips.
Okay, so he was hot. Annoying, but hot.
“Excuse me a moment,” she said to the bridal party. “I’ll be right back.” She turned to Robbie. “Come with me. I’ll get your things.” Once they were out of earshot, she added with a hiss, “You need to take that ice cream and get out of here.”
“What?” He licked the cone.
“The ice cream. I don’t allow food in the shop.”
“What about those little cheese things those women are eating?” He continued following her as she turned the corner and advanced toward the counter—licking as he went.
“That’s different.” She turned around. “Stop right here. Stay clear of that dress display.”
But she stopped too quickly and he was too hot on her heels. She knew what was going to happen by the look on his face before the huge scoop of chocolate sailed off the cone, over her shoulder, down the front of the new Rayna Kwan that she had put on display just this morning.
His mouth formed an O.
“Fuck.” She never said fuck—or even thought it. Apparently this man brought it out in her, but nothing called for bad words like eight thousand dollars’ worth of ruined beaded silk.
“Holy family and all the wise men,” he whispered, his brogue more pronounced.
They were both frozen in time.
He went into action first. “Sorry. I’ll fix it.” He removed the paper napkin from around his now empty cone and started to dab at the stain—and what a stain it was. There was a four-inch-wide band of chocolate from shoulder to waist—not unlike a royal sash—and splatters peppered down the front of the skirt.
“Stop! You can’t fix it.”
“I’ll pay for it.” He scooped up the ice cream from the floor and stood looking at it melting in his hand.
She grabbed the small trash can behind the accessories counter and held it out to him. “Here,” she said wearily.
